Hilton Rewards
by oqidaun
Summary: Lisa Cuddy struggles to comprehend her most frustrating faculty member and comes to realize that Gregory House is the devil in the details. Set immediately before and following "Airborne"  Season 3, Episode 18.  Story written in August 2008


Title: Hilton Rewards

Timeframe: Immediately before and following "Airborne" (Season 3, Episode 18)

Disclaimer: I don't work for Hilton, but I am an HHonors Member.

Summary: What others see and how we see ourselves…

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"Lisa Cuddy!"

"Dr. Cuddy?"

"Lisa?"

"Cuddy!"

The slender woman with dark hair struggled with her numerous purchases and did not hear her name called across the crowded street market in Singapore. She started off shopping early that morning with a list of very specific gifts, but the outing degenerated into a spree to be sorted out at a later date. Pausing at a table of silk scarves, she finally heard the shouts and turned around to face the pair of Canadian doctors who had been haphazardly pursuing her for the past ten minutes.

"Oh my god! Katie! Saul!" Cuddy nearly dropped her purchases trying to hug her old roommate. "You look great! Really fantastic! What are you doing here?" Cuddy gushed as she pushed her sunglasses up to hold her hair away from her face.

"Trying to catch up with you!" The bubbly pulmonologist in the bright pink linen dress giggled as she relieved Cuddy of a few of the bags she carried.

"That and the World Health Organization Conference," Saul added with his typical dry charm as he took a single bag. "You look great as always, Lisa."

"Thanks Saulie." She squeezed his arm. "I checked the program on the flight over and didn't see your names or I would have tried to arrange for dinner. I had no idea you were going to be over here. Did you email me?" Cuddy tried to dig her Palm Pilot out of her purse.

"We hadn't planned on coming until the last minute and basically just hopped on the plane and hoped to catch up with you when we got here." Katie passed a couple of the bags to her husband and helped Cuddy with her bulky purse. "Saulie was coerced onto the SARS panel."

"Yeah, real fun. There's quite a few Michigan alums here, I should start hitting people up for dues." Saul was the perennial president of the University of Michigan Medical School Alumni Association—a natural extension from his days as the Medical Student Organization president. Despite his cardboard personality and ability to sound bored at all times, Saul was a good organizer and politician. "Caught Greg House's monotone presentation on zygomycosis in post-Katrina New Orleans." He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen—he looks like shit."

Katie glared him. "That was nice. Saulie, Lisa's here with him."

"I know." The heavyset pediatrician shrugged and looked only mildly sheepish. "Doesn't change the fact that he looks like shit."

"Be careful how you define 'with him." Cuddy laughed warily as she scrolled through her appointments and telephone numbers on the Palm Pilot. "He's a tenured department chair and our senior infectious disease specialist. As Dean I get to go to the cool conferences." Cuddy did not elaborate that she had to drag House to the "cool" conferences and make certain that he presented.

Katie giggled. "Is it weird? I remember the crush you had on him in school."

"That's long over," Cuddy blushed. "Do you guys have time for lunch? I've got a list here of places recommended by the conference planners. It's been months. Why don't we sit down and catch up?"

"You had a crush on Greg House?" Saul looked incredulous. "With all the guys chasing you—that's the one you wanted?" He started to laugh. "Consider yourself fortunate that you didn't end up with him."

"Saulie, can you stop being a jerk for a minute." Katie silenced him. "I thought Greg was cute," she consoled her old friend, "in a psychotic kind of way."

"Long over," Cuddy stressed. "Lunch?"

Spending the afternoon with Katie and Saul Goldstein proved exhausting. Katie talked fast, walked slow and sniped at her husband with every breath she paused to take. Despite having lived with the perky little woman for seven years, Cuddy remained amazed that she had graduated medical school without killing her. Saul was deadpan and snobbish. He clung to his mall preppy appearance in a desperate struggle to avoid aging. It was the same reason he refused to let go of the alumni association. They had three of the world's most obnoxious children and four yappy little dogs. Each time a position opened up at the University of Toronto, Katie sent Cuddy the job posting and begged her to apply. Cuddy always deleted the messages immediately.

Cuddy returned to the hotel close to five o'clock and after dropping off her bags in her room and changing into a pair of comfortable shoes, she wandered down to the hotel bar. She had thought about taking a bubble bath and ordering room service, but imagined that House had wiped out most of their travel budget between the mini bar and pay-per-view. Cuddy smiled smugly, he didn't know that she was using his department's travel budget for the trip. He was miserly when it came to Diagnostic Medicine's funds. She had no idea what he was hording travel monies for, but she knew she wouldn't approve. He'd mentioned once that he wanted to trade Foreman to North Korea for weapons grade plutonium.

The posh hotel bar had a British imperial theme and, compared to the rest of Singapore, really good air conditioning. More importantly the bartender made an incredible gin martini, Cuddy's drink of choice. Content with her decision to be social, she claimed one of a pair of leather high back chairs situated in a corner perfect for people watching. She took one of the journals she had brought with her and tossed it on to the seat of the other chair to detour any unwanted attention from the businessmen who frequented the upscale hotel. Her first martini arrived and she settled into a comfortable existence of halfway reading the _New England Journal of Medicine_ and eavesdropping.

She loved expensive hotels.

Cuddy frowned when she thought about the heated argument she had with House when he found out they were not staying at the Singapore Hilton. She had argued that the Four Seasons had the same rating and was equally over priced. Each year they attended a handful of conferences together and House always insisted on Hilton properties. She only realized at the American Medical Association meeting that he was getting points on his Hilton Rewards card for the university's bookings and maliciously decided against the Singapore Hilton to cheat him out of his points. It was rare that she took such pleasure from picking on his quirks, but it had been funny.

At first.

He hadn't talked to her in three days.

The long flight home promised to be miserable unless she made amends. Also, once he was back in New Jersey the ball was definitely in his court as the master of annoying behavior. Cuddy sighed as she picked up her cell phone and dialed his number. It rang seven times before going to voice mail. She did not leave a message.

Her irritation grew. Cuddy knew he had international service as his fellows had called at least twenty times, that she knew of, seeking guidance, instructions and permission. Their puppy dog dependence on him worried her as all three neared the end of their fellowships. She thought that Foreman would be a stronger decision maker when he was first hired. Now he was as bad as Chase and Cameron, who she believed House could replace with a pair of horny golden retrievers.

She redialed and he finally answered after her fourth attempt. "What?"

"If you come downstairs to the bar I'll cover your drinks. They've got a 40 Year Laphroaig," she tempted him with the ridiculously expensive scotch.

He hung up.

Cuddy contemplated going upstairs and hitting him over the head with a blunt object. She was genuinely surprised when he showed up and wordlessly claimed the chair next to her. Cuddy ordered the bottle of scotch that rivaled her car payment and another gin martini.

"Do you remember Saul Goldstein from Michigan?" She tried to start a conversation.

"Do I have to?"

She bit her tongue. "He said to say hello. Katie, too."

He looked at her blankly and took a drink of the scotch. Finally he spoke, but to the waitress to order a Cuban cigar to compliment the scotch.

She hated the silent treatment and cold shoulder. He was usually not quite so passive aggressive, preferring instead to be just aggressive. She knew he hated conferences and noticed a hint of insecurity that surfaced when presenting in front of his peers. She conceded, though, that she would be much more insecure if she knew that people like Saul Goldstein were in the audience silently passing judgment. House had been a big name in infectious disease for years. He was well known and respected academically, but his caustic personality preceded him. House excelled at pissing people off. There were a lot of unflattering "Greg House is an ass" stories. And on many occasions, Cuddy had seen the smug, nearly triumphant, look on more than one face when House was slow climbing the steps to the podium. Although unshaven and fashionably disheveled, Cuddy did not think that Saul was correct in saying he 'looked like shit' nor had the mighty fallen. He had aged a lot since the infarction, but that could be expected. She admitted he looked tired and uncomfortable, but reasoned that he'd been passed out most of the day in a vicodin-induced stupor watching Asian porn. She still found him handsome.

The med school crush was a permanent affliction that she likened to benign tumor on her heart. Some days she wanted nothing more than to have him hold her in his arms. On other days she wanted to break his good leg.

"Tatewell from the CDC was looking for you and asked me to ask you if you'll email him when we get back." She tried again.

House hated Tatewell and consistently referred to him with the ten-syllable moniker ''.

He continued to maintain his icy silence and picked up the endocrinology journal she had brought down to occupy the second chair.

She refused to be daunted. "I'm thinking about buying a new car. Something German," she hoped to draw him in to one of their classic sniping contests, "another Mercedes, maybe. Or perhaps a Volkswagen?"

She waited for the Hitler comment.

He gave her a pained expression.

"Would you describe Foreman as a metrosexual?"

Silence.

"Heard from Stacy lately?" She gave up and used her wildcard as he was taking a drink. She knew she hit the chord when he choked on his scotch.

"Heard from your biological clock lately? Oh wait, that's what that eerie silence is," he shot back and aimed low.

Cuddy ignored the venom and smirked triumphantly.

He rolled his eyes.

"Have you left the hotel in the past three days?"

"It's Singapore."

"Exactly, it's interesting."

"It's hot."

"This is my first time to Asia and I've been exploring. You're missing out."

He rubbed his temples to accentuate his irritation. "All you've done is bought knock off crap in a tourist pit. You haven't explored anything if you've stopped at Starbuck's twice in the same day."

"Two different Starbuck's," she made a childish face, "and it better not be knock off crap."

"Remember there's two c's in Gucci." He put his feet on the leather ottoman.

Cuddy's gaze shifted. House's level of pain often betrayed him in his hands, specifically a white knuckled grip on his cane or the armrests of chairs. She also noted that on the worst days it caused his hands to shake, but witnessed few of those as by that point he'd usually alienated anyone who might notice and isolated himself. As she watched him, he seemed to have a hard time sitting upright, which suggested he was adequately if not over-medicated.

"How many pharmacies did you hit the night we got here?"

"Four."

"I'm not going anywhere near you in customs."

"Over the counter means take all you want, we'll make more. I'm exploring," he mocked her earlier comment.

"Yeah, I'll remember that when I bake a file into your birthday cake."

"What, no perjury this time?"

"Not unless you ask nicely."

He let her comment stand. "I wrote real prescriptions to real people and FedEx'd them back to my _patients_."

"So, I'll be getting a box of controlled substances mailed to my home in my name," she stretched and kicked him in the calf of his left leg. "Thanks."

His eyes widened and he winced. "Don't worry I'm sending the veterinary grade amphetamines to Mark Warner."

"What's wrong with your leg?"

"Long story, years ago I had infarction and didn't really catch it soon enough—"

"The good leg," she cut him off, "I didn't kick you that hard."

"Nothing's wrong with it," he shrugged, "you caught me by surprise."

"I'm not buying that." She scooted closer and before he could move grabbed his leg propped up on the ottoman.

This time he jumped. "Shit."

"Liar." She pushed up his pants leg and caught a glimpse of a dark purple bruise running up the side of his calf.

He pulled away from her. "Stop it." His voice was flat and serious.

"What did you do?" She was genuinely concerned.

House started to be evasive, but gave up and showed her underside and elbow of his left arm, which also featured a series of bruises in varying shades. "I fell," he lowered his voice.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. It's just a stupid bruise," he motioned to the waitress for another round. "Don't mother me, the last thing I need is Oedipal issues."

"You want me to write you prescription for an analgesic?" She offered sweetly. "And maybe something so you don't get a clot and stroke out at 38,000 feet on the way home?"

A small smile surfaced followed by annoyance. "Are waiting for me to loan you a pen?"

Cuddy finished her second martini and stood up. "I'll call it in from the concierge's desk and maybe they'll deliver. Paws off my martini when it comes."

The concierge helped Cuddy with the prescription and happily the pharmacy delivered. She did not want to attempt to find the shop in the dark. Relieved, she walked back to the bar and reclaimed her seat. House was smoking another cigar and her martini was missing its olives.

"Fear not, they deliver. At least I think I they're going to bring your prescription, either that or I ordered a rabies vaccine. I don't really know."

"It would be really nice if they could bring a pizza with it?"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't talk about food that we can't get here."

"You can get pizza in Singapore. You're the big explorer, you probably know the location of every American fast food chain in a five mile radius."

"Perhaps," Cuddy sneered, "but it's not going taste like it does at home."

"You mean like that place on Nassau that also has the really good spinach dip that you eat by the gallon while watching reality tv."

"You're an absolute bastard," she smiled sweetly.

"And you also like that one variety of Girl Scout Cookies. The one's that go straight to your ass. What are those called—something peanut butter-y…"

"I'm going to kick your other leg."

"That's not very Hippocratic of you." He showed her the article he had been reading on medical ethics and made doe eyes.

She smirked and then smiled with a sigh. "I am sorry that we did not stay at the Hilton. I do not understand your brand loyalty, but if you give me your reward points number when I go to Chicago in two weeks I'll use your card and you can have the credits."

"It's nontransferable."

Cuddy refused to give in and the third martini began to take its toll. "I'll lie, cheat and steal to get you your precious points. Don't be a martyr."

"How can I be a martyr if I'm always a selfish bastard?" He sighed obnoxiously. "Those are mutually exclusive concepts."

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_Two Weeks Later…_

The Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Review (MMWR) started late, ran late and descended into a level of chaos that surpassed anything Cuddy had witnessed in her administrative career. The MM was a weekly meeting to review professional practice and provide oversight for errors related to patient injury and death. It was a neutral academic meeting requiring mandatory attendance by all tenured and untenured faculty members. Fellows, residents, interns and even medical students were strongly encouraged to attend. The seriousness of the MMWR proved evident in the fact that failure to attend could not only result in the revocation of tenure, but also jeopardize a medical license. The meetings were strictly confidential and the focus was on department chairs and attending physicians to answer for the actions of the students under their supervision.

At least that was the intention…

The Friday afternoon meeting opened with a confrontation between the Department of Emergency Medicine Chair Payne Barker and a surgical intern who botched an emergency tracheotomy with a horizontal incision. Despite the enforced collegiality and immunity of the proceedings, Payne 'Pain in the Ass' Barker sounded the call for the intern's head and managed to win four other volatile tenured faculty members over to his side. The intern responsible for slitting his patient's throat was not required to respond, but hid in the back of the cavernous lecture hall behind two massive cardiology residents as Barker's tirade whipped up the tenured faculty on the front row. Minutes after Barker settled down, Cuddy had to cut the obstetricians off mid-manifesto before their ongoing war with the pediatricians reached a new level of open combat. Old Dr Maggie, sage defender of the first year medical students, called Joel Lehman a megalomaniac of House-proportions. House took offense at being the standard for measuring megalomania and then aided by the usually reserved cardiac surgeon, Dr. Patel, condemned the collective intelligence of the nursing staff. Oncology renewed their turf battle with pathology over the Speilman Grant for Cancer Research. Dr. Devon, a statuesque woman with a Jackie Kennedy persona, demanded that Cuddy remind the faculty of the purpose of the MMWR and rambled her way into a lengthy philosophical discussion of professional solidarity. A snide reference to the uncouth Wild West practices exhibited by certain faculty members set Barker off once again. House made a reference to "Cowboys and Indians" involving a crude aside about Ms. Kitty that caused Patel to laugh, which resulted in Patel's wife, the formidable and angry neurologist, hitting him on the back of his head and ordering House to shut up and sit down. Someone, possibly one of the interns, had the merciful idea to coordinate calling in about fifteen pagers. Cuddy contemplated resignation and suicide simultaneously as she announced an emergency mandatory Department Chair meeting for Tuesday afternoon and dismissed the MMWR.

Exhausted and disillusioned, she fantasized about firing every one of PPTH's tenured faculty members as she hurried back to her office. The surreal MMWR caused Cuddy to miss her four o'clock flight. Next, she was besieged by House demanding approval for a mercury based treatment regimen for neurosyphilis that not only violated a dozen FDA regulations, but also hadn't been used in the United States since 1932. His wild eyed argument for the treatment's efficacy hinged on a series of clinical trials conducted in Soviet mental institutions in the early 1960s. She begged him to go home and drink until Monday. He followed her to the parking garage indignant that she was so eager to sabotage his ideas and kill his patient merely because the Soviet clinical trials involved a few hundred human rights violations.

She missed the six o'clock flight stuck in traffic on the phone to seven different people at the hospital to make certain that House would not have any access to mercury (including old thermometers) for the entire weekend. She missed the seven o'clock flight when Cameron called in tears to report House was going to murder his patient. Wilson called ten minutes later to inform her that Cameron was over reacting—House didn't have that much mercury in the barometer behind his desk and spilled most of it on Chase.

She almost made it on the eight o'clock flight. However, Barker, who had gone home to drink, called to continue his rant about the surgical intern he wanted suspended. She lied to Barker that she would consider the suspension if he would make sure House didn't poison his patient. It was not a successful move as apparently Barker had joined PPTH's new pro-mercury lobby. She hung up on Barker.

Only after a mild temper tantrum at the Continental reservations desk and hanging up on Foreman in the middle of his morally indignant resignation did she get on the last flight to Chicago.

It was after midnight when she made it to Chicago O'Hare. The wind was cold, it was raining and all she wanted was a warm bed. The cab driver insisted on telling her the entire history of his son's asthma after he saw her luggage tag. She swore that he drove slower so as not to arrive at the Chicago Hilton before finishing his son's medical history. Cuddy smiled sympathetically and tipped him well, but offered no medical advice.

Downtrodden and unenthused about the prospect of spending seven hours in management meetings at the American Hospital Association, Cuddy approached the hotel check-in ready for a fight. Wordlessly, she handed the clerk her credit card as her phone chimed. With a sigh she flipped her phone open to read the message.

_Used brd spec antibio _

_& vanyco_

_Hg more fun._

_Will use nxt time _

_Pat. not dead. _

_Home 2 drink _

_Srry–GH_

Cuddy closed the phone and felt a tiny bit of relief. An apology from House was rare, although he'd deny its validity based on the absence of the vowel if she ever brought it up. The clerk ran her credit card and completed the check-in. The message from House reminded her about her his rewards number and the Singapore argument. She dug her Palm Pilot out of her purse and read the number off to the clerk.

"And this is the Hilton Rewards number you want to use?"

Cuddy's head hurt. "Is there a problem with it?"

"No, not at all, there's just a special room request notice attached to this card number. I booked you in a regular room. I'll fix it."

"What?" She was tired. "A regular room is fine."

"Well, your rewards number has an automatic request for a low level room that's ADA/handicapped accessible—you know hand rails in the shower and closer to the elevator—that sort of thing. Any reservation made using this number automatically processes it as an ADA request."

Cuddy felt like someone dropped a sack of bricks on her head. "So, if it's used you don't have ask for a special room at the desk?

"Yeah," the clerk nodded, "it's a permanent thing. There's a form you have fill out once, but after that you don't have to ask or change anything at check in. I guess it's not as embarrassing?" She shrugged and handed Cuddy her room key.

Part of her hated House for his secrecy and pride, part of her hated herself for not remembering his disability when she booked the rooms the Singapore. It was a miserable end to a miserable day. The arrogant ass had slipped in the bathtub at the Four Seasons, no wonder he'd gone out of his way to rack up a vindictive room service bill and torment her by changing her seat on the plane. She picked up her bag and started towards the empty elevator and waited for the doors to close before she wiped the tears out of her eyes.

Angrily, she seized her phone and entered the only speed dial code she ever used. It rang twice.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Fifteen 'til three." Cuddy stepped off the elevator pulling her carry-on bag behind her. "I should have been here hours ago."

"Fascinating," he said with a yawn. She could hear him changing channels. "What's wrong? Why'd you call?"

"I don't know," she said irritably as she swiped the card in the reader and pushed the door open. "Why did you answer?"

"Because if I don't you scream at me," he groaned. "Did you know for $29.95 I can get, not one, but two microwave pasta cookers? I only have one microwave—"

She sat down and turned on the television. "How's your leg?"

"A constant source of annoyance, irritability and makes me want to die in the morning when I wake up."

"Other one," she found the channel with the pasta cooker infomercial, "the bruise."

"Fine," he sounded suspicious.

"That is a hell of a pasta cooker." She watched as the presenter pounded the microwavable dish with a hammer.

"Virtually indestructible, they say." House intoned.

"It's not just for pasta," Cuddy added as an involuntary smile appeared, "it makes steamer quality broccoli in three minutes."

"$29.95—it's like they're giving them away. A public service to the pasta illiterate."

Cuddy tried not to laugh, but couldn't help it. "Their benevolence is as legendary as their microwaved pasta."

"If I order the world's greatest microwavable pasta cooker, do you want the extra one? Can we take our sordid relationship to the pasta level?"

"What relationship?" Cuddy kicked her shoes off.

"I was thinking about something purely sexual and a little demeaning."

"Not going to happen."

"Chicken. You're missing out on the chance of a lifetime. I even tip out of guilt," he paused to let Cuddy catch on. "What about the pasta cooker? I'm not ordering this modern marvel unless I can unload the extra one."

"You owe me for a $400 bottle of Scotch and $60 in Cuban cigars."

"Cuddy," House feigned insult, "I'm reaching out to you with the $29.95 pasta miracle that's going to change our lives."

"Fine, we can have a pasta relationship."

"Kinky. What are you wearing?"

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "You first."

"A smile," he paused dramatically, "and my pajamas."

She laughed.

"What are you wearing?"

"Same thing I wore at hospital just wrinkled."

"You should probably go to sleep or you're going to scare people at your meeting."

"Good night, House."

"Night Cuddy."


End file.
